Nollaig Shona Dhuit
by Book girl fan
Summary: My entries for Hades Lord of the Dead's December Challenge of Awesomeness 2019! Always a pleasure, my dear friends, and I hope this year will be too. Title is Irish for Merry Christmas.
1. Angels of the Past

_Prompt from BookRookie12: Christmas traditions_

"Have any of you made these before?" Mrs Hudson asked, holding up the tiny angel in her hand to the crowd of children gathered around her old wooden chair. They all shook their heads. "It's called a raffia angel."

"It's very pretty, m'am," Wiggins said. He frowned at the hands that went up to touch it and they quickly retreated.

"It's been a Christmas tradition in my family for many many years, to make these each year for the Christmas tree." She leaned back, the old chair creaking against her weight, gaze drifting as she recalled Christmases of long ago. "I remember making them with my sister when we were girls, collecting all the straw, borrowing scarlet thread from Mammy to tie them with, and hanging them up nicely in the tree. Penny was always taller than me, so she could hang hers higher."

"Can we make the mafia angels too?" little Charlie asked shyly, dirty curls falling forward onto a pink-cheeked little face.

Mrs Hudson came back to the present. "Of course! Every child should know how to make a raffia angel. Here, let me show you all how..."


	2. A Vanishing

_Prompt from V Tsuion: Someone vanishes into thin air. This one has some implications of nasty things, though nothing explicit. Please let me know if you think it deserves a higher rating. _

"Mr Holmes!"

As soon as we had come in the door, the man rushed towards us, face a mask of agony, fingers reaching out to clutch Holmes' sleeve. "Mr Holmes, you must help me! She's disappeared!"

Holmes carefully detached the man's hand and, leading him over to the lounge, said to me, "Watson, ask Mrs Hudson to fetch some tea. Our visitor here has had a very bad shock – his sister has disappeared."

The man started. "You've heard of it already! Oh, I knew you were the one who could help me, Mr Holmes! Elisa vanished into thin air, and I need to find her!"

Mrs Hudson brought up the ta, and after a few shaky sips, the man seemed steadier. "My name is Phelps, Arthur Phelps, and my younger sister Elisa disappeared this morning," he explained to us. "Our parents are dead, and it's just the two of us in the world. I work as a clerk at Hobson & Hobson, and Elisa makes a bit of money from sewing, but we don't have much. Not enough for anyone to kidnap her!"

"Why kidnapped, and not simply left on her own?" Holmes inquired.

Phelps looked aghast. "And leave me behind? Elisa never would. And she was about to get married, too, to my old friend Andrew Cooper. He's known the both of us a very long time, and is utterly in love with Elisa. She wouldn't just leave him like that! We don't have much, but I'll pay anything, anything you want, if you can find her, and Andrew would pay even more!" Excitement flushed his cheeks, and he half-rose in his chair.

"He must love her very much," I commented, admiring the romance of a young man willing to pay anything to find his missing fiancée. Yet something caught at me, a detail that seemed to have been omitted. "Does your sister love him also?"

I caught from the corner of my eye an approving glance from Holmes. Phelps, on the other hand, looked distinctly unhappy with the question. "Elisa... she's known Andrew a very long time. We grew up together, the three of us, and he's always loved her. He could make her rich, and keep her happy all her days."

Holmes abruptly rose from his chair. "I will investigate the matter, however I make no promises."

Phelps rose from his chair also, stammering his thanks. "I'm sure you'll find her, you're the best! Please, anything you need, any expense, I'll write to Andrew and I'm sure he'll agree. Just please find her!"

Nearly as soon as Phelps left the room, Holmes disappeared into his bedroom and re-emerges in disguise. "I'm going out, Watson, and may not be back until late."

It was very late when Holmes returned, but when he did, it was with a triumphant smile.

The next day, Arthur Phelps again visited us at our rooms on Baker Street. "Have you found her?" he asked eagerly the moment he was through the door. "You have, haven't you! I knew you could do it! Thank you so much, Mr Holmes, I'm sure you have no idea how much this means to me." He looked eagerly around the room for a sign of his missing sister. "Where is she?"

"Your sister is not here." Holmes handed him a letter. "She asked me to give you this."

Phelps took the letter from him with trembling fingers, ripping it open and extracting the letter inside. "She... she refuses to marry Andrew Cooper," he read slowly. "She accuses him of– oh! My poor sister!" Collapsing onto the lounge, he sunk his head into his hands, repeating over and over, "My poor sister! How could he?"

Eventually, he composed himself, and stood again in front of Holmes and myself. "I am sorry, sir, but it seems I will not be able to pay you as handsomely as you deserve after all. I could not accept Mr Cooper's money, not with these accusations against him. Tomorrow I will join my sister on a ship bound for America, to start new lives there, but name your price now, and I will do everything I can to meet it. If it means I must sell everything we have here, it will make our travelling all the lighter."

"Your honourable is admirable, sir, but unnecessary," Homes said, smiling slightly. "You and your sister will need your funds in America."

"Your sister is lucky to have a brother such as you," I added. "Many others would chosen to believe their friend instead."

"Thank you," Phelps said softly, "but I only did what was right." He bowed to us, and left.


	3. Australia

_Prompt from ThatSassyCaptain: Let's have a holiday! Where does Holmes never go in canon but could have gone?_ _What does he do if anything?_

"Australia! My dear Watson, of all the countries you could have chosen for a holiday, why would you choose Australia?" Holmes flicked at a fly buzzing around his hat.

"I think it was the perfect choice," I said cheerfully. "There is no question of anyone coming to ask you for help here – no one here knows who you are! The hot climate will make a pleasant change from England, and I haven't seen my cousin David since I was a child. There could be no better place for a holiday!"

"John!" A man roared at us from across the dock. He crossed over to us, beaming, and I recognised him as my cousin David, though much older and more tanned than the last time I had seen him. He greeted me with a hearty embrace. "Good to see you, John! You've sure grown up, haven't you, mate! You're a proper man now!"

"It's good to see you too, David." I gestured to Holmes. "May I introduce my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes. As I said in my letter, we've come for a holiday from England, and very much appreciate you letting us stay with you."

"Of course!" David chuckled. "That's what family is for! Out here, you need people to rely on." He looked Holmes up and down, towering over even Holmes' six foot height. "Glad to meet a friend of John's, Mr Holmes!" With that, he engulfed Holmes in a hug.

Holmes, looking very uncomfortable, quickly disentangled himself, whispering to me as we followed David out to the street, "I am very grateful, Watson, that you do not take more after your cousin!"


	4. A Choice Made

_Prompt was from V Tsuion: Watson being a doctor._

"Now, hold still." Watson lifted his stethoscope to press against his patient's chest. "And breathe in..."

Lestrade breathed in, looking somewhat uncomfortable. Understandable, as he was currently stripped to his shirtsleeves sitting in the front parlour of the manor they had been residing in as part of the case Holmes had asked them both to accompany him on.

"And breath out." Watson pressed his stethoscope against the other side of Lestrade's chest, repeating, "Breathe in... breathe out." He sat back letting the stethoscope fall. "I can't hear any signs of pneumonia, which is a miracle considering how long you spent in the water."

"Not like I really had another choice, was there," Lestrade said, shrugging into the coat Watson's handed him. It wasn't his coat, which was still utterly soaked from the river, but one kindly donated by their host.

Watson cast a glance over to the other side of the room, where a still figure lay. If not for Lestrade's quick action in jumping into the river, that figure would not be there at all. "There was a choice," he said quietly. "And I can never thank you enough for the one you made."


	5. An Instrumental Coincidence

_Prompt from V Tsuion: Why is there a _ in our flat? I'm very tired, so unfortunately it is not my best work but hopefully it is still good._

"Why is there a piano in our flat?"

Holmes and I stood in the doorway to our flat, the doorway blocked by an enormous piano wedged just inside. On my part, I was frankly astonished that the piano had fit through the doorway at all.

"Now, Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson said, coming up the stairs behind us. "I've accepted a lot of strange things over the years, with gunshots and mysterious visitors and people leaving ridiculous messages, but this is going a bit too far! I'm afraid I must insist. Either you get rid of all these ridiculous instruments, or you need to look for new lodgings elsewhere!"

"My sincere apologies, Mrs Hudson." Holmes swept right through Mrs Hudson's indignation with his characteristic charm. "I assure you, I did not bring these instruments here. I'm fact, I believe it might be a case of a wrong address."

"Excellent deduction as always, Holmes," I exclaimed, bending carefully to examine the shipping label still attached to the piano. "This was meant to be sent to 221 Baket Street, for a new theatre about to open there."

"A curious coincidence, that the names should be so similar, but unlikely to be more than that. I'll send a message to the theatre immediately," Holmes assured Mrs Hudson. "Really, barely a mystery at all."


	6. Christmas Booties

_Prompt from Winter Winks 221: Holiday in Cornwall_

"John, look!" Mary turned to me, face glowing, with a pair of cotton booties the perfect size for a newborn held in one hand. "These would be perfect for a baby."

The grey-haired woman running the stall nodded, her wrinkles deepening with her smile. "All my little 'uns wore booties just like these," she told Mary.

It was the first Christmas since Holmes had died, and Mary had decided we should spend Christmas somewhere other than London. Burdened by the thought of all the traditions and invitations Holmes would be absent from, I agreed, and we took the train out to the small town of Fowey, on the Cornish coast, where Mary had friends we could stay with. Today we had decided to explore the Christmas markets in town, and had been wandering around for the past hour.

"I'm sure they would be perfect for a baby," I agreed. "But surely it's a bit soon to be buying for a baby? Unless..." I hadn't noticed any symptoms of pregnancy from Mary, but perhaps it was still early. A spark of joy alighted in my heart at the thought.

Mary shook her head. "No, you're right. I was just carried away with the thought. You, me, a little baby who could wear these booties – isn't it a nice dream?"

I took Mary's hand and smiled at her. "Maybe one day it will be more than that."

She carefully placed the booties back on the table, and we continued our wandering through the stalls, hand in hand.


	7. Gun To The Face

_Prompt from PowerOfPens: No matter how often it happens, a gun in your face is scary._

Watson had thought, after Afghanistan, that having a gun pointed in his face would no longer be scary. He'd faced down men who wanted him dead, had been in a war, had been shot – any mugger he might encounter in civilian life would surely be nothing compared to that.

He hadn't counted on Sherlock Holmes.

Watson could never regret becoming friends with Holmes, but there was no doubt that their friendship had drastically increased his odds of having a gun pointed in his face. Of course, on many of those occasions he had his own gun in hand – his marksmanship was one of the main things he brought to their partnership – yet that honestly never helped as much as someone who had not been there might think it would. Instead, every time there was that same welling of terror, that wonder if this time might be the last.

He had asked Lestrade about it once, one time when they had both had a few drinks too many. Lestrade had looked at him with hazy eyes and said, with the over-enunciated tones of one who knows they are drunk but are trying not to show it, "If it doesn't terrify you, doc, you might as well be dead. No matter how often it happens, a gun in the face is scary. Even if it's not your face."

Watson had considered that for a moment, imagining whose face a gun might be pointed at instead, shuddered, and ordered another drink.


	8. Christmas Eve Call

_Prompt from BookRookie12: Watson gets called away late on Christmas Eve._

"It's Christmas Eve, John. Can't it wait?" Mary pleaded, but she knew it would do no good. John had never not answered to Sherlock's call, and thought she knew she could stop him if she really wanted to, she also knew it would likely cause irreparable damage to their marriage, as well as her hard-won friendship with Sherlock himself.

John brushed a kiss against her forehead as he bundled himself into his coat, promising, "I'll be back as quick as I can, darling, but I must know what's happened. If Holmes is in danger, I need to be there." He hurried towards the door and then out, leaving Mary standing there, watching him go.

She sighed. It might be selfish of her, but she had wished to have her husband home this Christmas. Last Christmas John had taken her with him and Sherlock on a case in Scotland, and it had been a wonderful time, but she had been looking forward to a Christmas spent at home.

Really, she thought to herself as she brought out her sewing to while away the evening hours, it would have been so much simpler if Sherlock had only agreed to spend Christmas with them, instead of staying at Baker Street alone while Mrs Hudson went to visit her sister. Then they could have spent Christmas Eve all three of them together, with no need for John to go out into the night at all.

It was nearly midnight, and Mary was just thinking about going up to bed by herself, when knocking came on the front door. Hurrying to the door, knowing only one person could be at her door this time of night and confused as to why John hadn't just used his key, Mary opened it to see that the person knocking was not, apparently, John.

"My apologies for intruding on your evening, Mrs Watson," Sherlock said politely, a barely conscious John leaning against his shoulder, "but Watson insisted on coming home tonight instead of waiting for morning."

"Oh, John! Bring him in, Sherlock, put him down on the couch in there." Sherlock helped John inside, Mary fluttering along after them, feeling helpless. "What happened?"

"Nothing dangerous, I assure you, Mary." Sherlock carefully lowered John down to the couch. "Watson was gathering information for me in a pub when a brawl broke out, and he received a hit to the head. He assured me at the time that it was not a concussion, simply a hard knock, and insisted on continuing with the case."

"But your case is solved now, yes?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, the case is solved, and Miss Addams' father is now home."

"Good." Mary nodded decisively. "Then, Sherlock, if you could help me carry John up to bed, I insist that you spend the night here. Christmas Eve is no night to be out alone."

"Of course, I'll– Christmas Eve?" Sherlock looked uncharacteristically surprised. "My apologies, Mary, I had not realised, or I wouldn't have asked Watson to come with me."

Mary smiled at him, her earlier irritation fading away. Now that John was home, and Sherlock here as well, her greatest Christmas wish was granted. If she hadn't had as much time with John as she had wanted, she knew what he was like when she married him. Besides, there was always tomorrow.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed twelve.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Merry Christmas, Mary."


	9. Chink in the Armour

_Prompt from sirensbane: "There are men whom one hates until a certain moment when one sees, through a chink in their armor, the writhing of something nailed down and in torment." - Gerald Kersh_

I've never been particularly prone to hating people. Even fighting in a war, my focus was on keeping our men alive to see tomorrow. I didn't have time to hate enemy while I was working, and after I was shot, I was in too much pain to be thinking about anything else.

When I met Holmes, and we started out on what became years of adventures in crime-fighting together, I still didn't hate the criminals we met. Some of them disgusted me, some of them I pitied, but none seemed worth hating, particularly when I saw some of the results of the hatred they held. Although I disagreed with Holmes' theory of emotions being a crack in the magnifying glass in all other respects, in regards to hatred it seemed quite accurate. It would skew thoughts and motivations off course, drawing all things into itself like the whirlpool in Mr Verne's excellent novel.

Just when I had thought nothing could bring me to true hatred, my life was struck with the two greatest tragedies I had ever experienced. First, the death of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes, killed by Professor Moriarty. Only a year after, my wife Mary, who had supported me through my grief, was taken by fever and died. Blaming the fever was useless, so all of my anger, all of my hatred, I directed towards Moriarty. He had taken my friend, and in my grief, it seemed to me that if Holmes had only lived, perhaps Mary would have as well.

Even Holmes' return, and the subsequent arrest of Moriarty's companion Moran, was not enough to stop my hatred. Instead it only provided a new target, for though Moriarty had paid for his crimes with his life, Moran was still here, causing suffering, when my dear Mary who had harmed no one was gone. It wasn't, in fact, until many years later, when Holmes related to me a story from his travels during the years I thought him dead, that anything changed.

Holmes was telling me about that day at Reichenbach, how he had escape from Moriarty's grip at the final moment, and watched the Professor fall to his death before escaping from Moran's bullets. He then shared a part of the story previously unknown to me. After he was no longer being pursued by Moran, he circled back to the bottom of the falls to look for Moriarty's body and make certain he was dead. There he had found Moran, Moriarty's body in his arms, grieving his lost friend.

"I had not thought they were friends, merely master and lieutenant, but it seemed they were closer than I had guessed," Holmes told me. "Moran is a genius of traps and hunting; I had thought he would have known better than to let prey such as myself escape by stopping to grieve."

Yet in that moment I understood Moran perfectly. While he had been grieving his friend down below, I had been at the top grieving mine. I imagined a world where I had had no Mary to come back to after that train ride back to England, none of the comfort she had given before she too was taken from me. Without her, with nothing to carry me onwards but justice for the dearly beloved friend who had died at the hands of an enemy, I could see how Moran must have continued on. That little crack in the shell, a glimpse of a man who was not entirely unlike me, was enough for my hatred to finally start to abate. I doubt to this day if I will ever be able to let go completely, but I have at least found a measure of peace.


	10. Help Is Coming

_Prompt from BookRookie12: "Help is coming." Inspired by the amazing storm outside my house tonight. Hopefully, with the right prompt, I'll even end up continuing this!_

Lightning flashed through the sky, lighting up our hiding place in a burst of white. I huddled close to the back corner of the alley, whispering to the children, "Don't be scared. Help is coming." I had already sent Wiggins off to find Holmes, leaving me with these two young ones.

The rain poured down around us, soaking through our clothes to our skin. The splashing of the rain, combined with the crashing of the thunder above us, was enough for me to know that I would never hear our pursuers before they had found us.

"What if Mr Holmes don't find us before they get us?" Charlie whispered, one small hand clinging to my coat.

"Holmes will find us," I said firmly. I pulled Charlie's sister Liza closer to me, covering her from the worst of the rain with my coat. She was already shivering with the cold, and it made her seem very young. Holmes' Irregulars were usually so confident and capable, it was easy to forget they were only children, and many of them without any other family but each other.

Charlie looked at me, eyes doubtful. These children knew that life was seldom kind.

"Trust me, Charlie. Help is coming."


	11. God's Placing

_Sorry this took so long, but I really struggled with this prompt. God is super important in my life but I have trouble imagining Holmes ever being happy in a religious life, so it was difficult to balance those two perspectives. I'm hoping you like my take on this prompt! _

_Prompt from Michael JG Meathook: After solving a particularly dark or brutal case, Sherlock quits the detective business and tries devoting his life to religion._

I was sitting by the fire, reading my newspaper, when Holmes came in from the street, rain still dripping from his coat, and said the last thing I ever would have expected of him. "Watson, I'm going to become a priest."

I dropped my paper. "What?"

"A priest, Watson. Surely you know what one of those is?"

I drew back at his snarl, feeling hurt. I knew I wasn't as clever as Holmes, but I wasn't an idiot either. Still, Holmes was my closest friend, and there must have been some reason for him to make such an uncharacteristic declaration. I persisted, "Is this because of your latest case? Young Miss Murphy?"

"She's dead." His voice was cold, but I could see that he was not as composed as he sounded. "They killed her, just minutes before I arrived. Her body was still warm... what was left of it."

I stood, limping from the cold weather, and went to Holmes' side, taking his coat and hanging it by the door before ushering him into the chair beside my own. He went willingly, barely seeming aware of what he was doing but simply trusting me to know best. I settled back into my chair, turning towards him, ready to listen as long as he needed me to. "Tell me about it," I said quietly.

In halting words, so unlike his normal elegance of speech, Holmes recounted the entire story. He had been tracking Miss Murphy for days, ever since her parents had come to him and told him she had disappeared. That much I already knew. I hadn't known she had been taken by a local gang, who had made her break into buildings for them, being so young and small, and had force-fed her opium to keep her quiet when they didn't need her. When Holmes had come close enough to scare them, they had killed her to cover their tracks.

"Miss Murphy is not the first they've done this to, and now she won't be the last," Holmes finished. His face was no longer quite so wan, but he was still obviously tired and discomposed. "I couldn't find anything to track the gang down. What's the point of being a detective if I can't solve mysteries even to save a life?"

"You have saved lives, Holmes, many of them, but even you aren't perfect," I told him. "You'll find them. And if you don't mind me saying it, I think God needs you here, as a detective, not in a church."

Holmes half-smiled. "You always know what to say, my Watson." He didn't say thank you, but he didn't need to. We both heard it, loud and clear.


	12. The Myth, The Man

_Prompt from PowerOfPens: The Inspectors honor Holmes death._

"He was one of the best," Gregson said, his drink landing on the bar with a clatter. "Never was the same once he left."

"One of the best?" The mocking tone in Lestrade's voice now was still much friendlier than either of them had been in their prime. "He was always better than both of us and you know it. Only problem was, so did he."

Gregson scoffed. "Yeah, and wasn't shy about it either. Not that the doc's stories helped."

"Oi." Lestrade gave Gregson a firm look. Watson had been a treasured friend of his until the doctor's death a few years earlier, and he still would not tolerate any disrespect of the man. "You know as well as I do that Holmes hated those. He wasn't in it for the attention, he just wanted to help people."

"And for his little puzzles," Gregson protested, but then sighed. "But you're right. Holmes was a pompous old bugger, but he was ours. First the doctor, now him – not a lot left on the force who remember him, either. Just us."

"Well, I'm not planning on dying anytime soon." Lestrade stroked his moustache, more grey than brown these days. "Somebody's got to keep the memory alive. Someone has to remember Sherlock Holmes as more than just the world's greatest detective, but as an actual person who once locked himself in a closet at a crime scene, and who better than us?"

Gregson snickered. "I'll drink to that!"

The two old men knocked their drinks together and settled back into their barstools, telling stories of Sherlock Holmes, the detective the world would never forget, yet the man very few had ever known.


	13. Teamwork Makes the Dream Work

_Prompt from Ennui Enigma: Teamwork._

"Mary, have you seen my–?" Watson began, coming into the kitchen in a fluster, clothes in disarray.

"You left your stethoscope on the counter last night," Mary said, not looking up from her needlework.

"Thank you, dearest. And would you know where my–?"

"Your scarf is on the stairs. You were in a hurry last night, remember?"

"Of course, Mrs Bryant was having her baby and I was in such a rush I forgot it." Watson shook his head with a smile. "I'm glad one of us can remember these things." He kissed Mary on the top of the head and went to get his scarf.

While he was out of the room, Mary called after him, "John, dear, while you're getting your scarf can you bring my–"

"Slippers?" Watson reappeared in the doorway, slippers already in hand. "Here you are, darling."

Mary accepted them gratefully, smiling up at them. "Have a wonderful day, John."

"You too, Mary." With a final kiss, Watson was at the door, ready to go out. Just as he was leaving, he said, "And Mary, if Holmes comes by asking about the opera case–"

"–tell him Bertrand said red!" they chorused together, and with a laugh, Watson left. Mary settled back into her chair, a smile on her face that stayed for the rest of the day.


	14. Gift-Giving

_I'm afraid I've fallen very behind in the challenge this year, from a combination of crossing to the other side of the world for Christmas with family, which was lovely, and getting the flu, which was not. I'm slowly recovering now, so hopefully will be able to finish and post the rest soon! _

_Prompt from PowerOfPens: Holmes writes a monograph. Gift giving; an exercise in deduction_

"'_Gift-giving: an exercise in deduction_'?" Watson raised his eyebrows over the manuscript. "Do you really think anyone will want to read it, Holmes?"

"Why, because it is not one of your beloved stories?" Holmes sniffed. "I know it is unlikely to appeal to the general public, but for those others like myself, who are interested in the science of deduction and its uses... I'm sure they will read it with interest."

"It's something you've used before, then?"

"Of course!" Holmes sat straighter in his chair, ready to show Watson just how useful his monograph could be. "That monograph contains my deductions from all the way since the first Christmas after you moved in. It is more Christmas-focused than the title would allow, though there are brief sections included on other occasions of gift-giving, such as birthdays, weddings, and the like."

"And the same methods can be applied to each?" Watson inquired. He lifted the manuscript again, taking a closer look at the monograph.

"With a few necessary changes. Christmas, coming as it does at a set time of year and with particular traditions, is by far the easiest in terms of gift-giving." Holmes gestured with his pipe. "Take your gift to Mrs Hudson. It's Christmas, a traditionally winter holiday, so you choose something warming. Having noticed recently that Mrs Hudson's scarf is starting to look a bit old, you've bought her a new one. Then, not being satisfied with a purely practical gift, as you see Christmas as a time of joy and frivolities, you've added something sweet, probably a few toffees."

"Brilliant, Holmes!" Watson exclaimed. "That's exactly what I got her, and for those reasons, too! I never should have doubted your deductions, even when used for gift-giving."


	15. Photographs and Fairies

_Prompt from Michael JG Meathook: Sherlock investigates a case involving photographic evidence of real fairies. My apologies if this isn't any good, but I've been stuck on this prompt for two months and just needed to write something._

Holmes took one glance at the photograph and thrust it back towards its owner. "Faked, and badly."

"How can you be so sure?" The man insisted, standing his ground. He ran reverent hands over the photograph, smoothing out the crease in the corner and tracing his finger across the young face contained within. "It's as likely as anything else, isn't it?"

"No." Holmes collapsed in his chair, turning to look at me with uncharacteristic pleading in his eyes. "Watson...?"

I gently took the photograph from the man and pointed to the thin, barely visible line connected to one of the tiny figures in front of the girl. "That line is a thin strip of wood, holding the figure up. It's very similar to a puppet show. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but it means those fairies are not real."

"But, my Emily..." The man's eyes filled with tears. I offered him my handkerchief and he took it, dabbing the tears away. "Thank you for your time, Doctor," he whispered, still turned away. "I should have known it was a trick, my beautiful girl ever asking something of an old fool like me. Her mum wrote the letter, she must have been the one to make it all up..." He stared at the photo again, then tucked it carefully into an inside pocket. He handed me back my handkerchief. "Thank you, Dr Watson." He bowed towards me, then turned and bowed at Holmes as well. "Mr Holmes."

He turned to leave, and I said in farewell, "I'm sorry we could not help you more, but I hope you hear from your Emily soon!"

"This is the first I've heard from my Emily in the last three years. Once her mother knows I won't be sending money, I doubt I'll be waiting less than twice that to hear from her again." He disappeared out the door and down the stairs.


	16. New Year's Traditions

_Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: Mr Sherlock Holmes has one New Year's Tradition, and Dr John H Watson is about to find out what it is. _

_I am slowly getting through these! _

"Holmes?" I called. He didn't respond.

I slowly climbed up the stairs, gripping the handrail and cursing the freezing rain outside, which had always made my wounds ache terribly. It was New Year's Eve, and I had just come in from a longer than usual shift at the hospital, offering extra help with the flu that was going around. I had done the same last year, still too sore over the loss of my beautiful Mary to attend any of the holiday parties we had previously attended together, and they had been so grateful for the help I had promised them to return this year as well.

"Holmes?" I called again, more softly this time. It was quite late, almost midnight, and if Holmes had actually managed to fall asleep I didn't want to disturb him. It seemed unlikely, for he nearly always waited up for me to come home just as I did for him, but unlikely was not impossible.

It occurred to me that Holmes could be out, but I almost immediately dismissed it. In all the time I had known him, Holmes had never attended a New Year's party, always waving off my invitations for him to join me at whatever event I was attending. Unless a new case had come up in the time I had been out, Holmes would not have left.

I finally dragged myself into the sitting room, disappointed but not surprised to find it empty. My disappointment only grew when I noticed the embers still burning in the grate. Holmes had clearly not long gone to bed, meaning I had only barely missed him. Still, my wanting for some company to ring in the New Year was not reason enough to wake Holmes from well-deserved rest.

"Watson?" Holmes stepped out of his bedroom, holding a pouch in one hand.

"Holmes!" A smile came effortlessly to my face, the wearisome night feeling much brighter just for the presence of my dear friend. "I thought you'd gone to bed."

He came to my side, helping me out of my drenched coat and stoking the fire back to brightness as I collapsed into my chair. "Not yet, Watson, not until midnight."

"I didn't think you celebrated." My teeth chattered with the cold, and I held my hands closer to the fire. I could still hear the rain thundering down on the cobblestones outside, and my old wounds began to ache anew. I winced, rubbing at my shoulder. Afghanistan seemed so far away from London's freezing winters, yet the pain was still very present.

Holmes looked at me with what I thought to be concern, but did not comment. Instead, he said, "I have a little tradition, that's all. On New Year's Eve, just before midnight, I add a certain chemical mix to my fireplace and watch the flames until they die."

"Dying away like the old year?" I asked. It appealed to my romantic nature, the idea of burning away the old year to welcome the new one in, though it was not something I ever would have expected of Holmes.

He hummed softly, taking up the small pouch he'd had earlier from where he'd left it on the mantle. "You do always see the poetry in things, Watson." He tipped some of the pouch's contents into his hand, sprinkling it onto the flames. Immediately, they began to burn a pale blue, flicking with unearthly beauty.

I watched in awe, barely noticing Holmes sink into his seat opposite mine. The flickering flames continued, colour not abating, and even as the clock struck midnight my fascination did not wane. Together, Holmes and I watched until the fires died down.


	17. A Very Quiet Uproar

_Prompt from Domina Temporis: Holmes visits Mycroft and throws the Diogenes into an uproar. Hope everyone is staying safe in these difficult times! _

There were very few things in the world that could make Mycroft Holmes move hastily, Sir Richard mused, but this, it appeared, was one of them.

After all, it wasn't every day you were informed that your young brother had arrived at the doorstep of your club, covered in blood, and was asking for you.

Allowing his curiosity free reign, Sir Richard stood up, neatly folded his newspaper, laid it on his reading desk so it was precisely in line with the edge, and followed Mr Holmes into the Diogenes' entrance hall.

As a rule, of course, visitors always went to the Visitor's Room, to be received by whichever club member they were visiting. However on this occasion, the clerk in the entrance hall had apparently insisted that the younger Mr Holmes must not venture any further into the club, and considering the amount of blood dripping off him, Sir Richard really wasn't surprised. Young Mr Holmes barely seemed to notice, eagerly imparting something to his brother and utterly ignoring the foul looks he was garnering from the occasional incoming member.

"-not even close to where it should have been!"

Sir Richard caught the tail end of young Mr Holmes' words as the brothers passed him by, the older Mr Holmes chivying his brother towards the washrooms close by. His brother was gesturing at something, sending more blood spatters across the room, to the consternation of the clerk.

Well. Clearly there was quite a story there. He'd have to keep an eye on the newspapers, to see what Dr Watson might write about it. His daughter always did enjoy those stories.

Curiosity satisfied, Sir Richard wiped an errant spot of blood from his collar, and returned to the reading room and his newspaper.


	18. Christmas Greetings From Mrs Norton

_Prompt from Wordwielder: Irene Adler sends a Christmas card._

Dear Mr Holmes,

I do hope this finds you well.

Godfrey and I have been married almost a year now, and are still very happy together. Thank you once again for your participation in our wedding. It did make the whole affair much easier.

We have returned to America, and I have also returned to the stage. As you might have heard, I am set to star in The Water Queen when it opens on Broadway next year. If you should ever wish to come, I would set a ticket aside to you. It would, perhaps, make an interesting change for us to meet under our own names.

Sincerely,

Irene Norton


	19. Moira

_Prompt from Winter Winks 221: Curled up in Bed_

"Mary?"

Mary heard John open the door, but didn't look up from where she was curled up in bed. She couldn't move - the weight of her grief was too heavy, pressing her down into the covers.

"Mary, darling." She felt John sink onto the bed beside her, and went willingly when he pulled her into his arms. "What's happened?"

"Moira," she croaked. Her shoulders began to shake, and she choked up, unable to say more. Instead, she just held out the letter.

"Moira? Has something gone wrong with her wedding?" John took it, and when she heard his sharp intake of air, she knew he'd read the important part. "I'm so sorry, my darling."

"Frederic loves her," she gasped through her tears, feeling like she would drown in her sorrow. "What will he do now? Who would kill Moira?" She buried her face in John's shirt. "What will I do?"

"You'll survive, my love, and honour her memory." He stroked her hair. "Would you like me to ask Holmes to help on the case? You know he's the best, he'd find her killer."

She shook her head, unable to find the words. As much as she loved Sherlock and appreciated everything he was to John, right now she just needed her husband. All she wanted was for him to hold her while she cried, mourning the loss of her best friend.


	20. Little Old Lady

_Prompt from mrspencil: a little old lady is not as she seems_

I felt a tugging on my sleeve, and looked down to see a little old lady smiling sweetly at me. "Excuse me, sir, would you be able to help me?"

She was wearing an older style of dress with a shawl over it, draped around her wizened shoulders. What hair I could see under her bonnet was grey, though pinned back nicely In her arms she carried a shopping bag, one which looked much too heavy for her by the way she was hunched over it.

"Of course, madame. Would you like me to take your bag?" I held out my arm to take it from her, but she drew back.

"No thank you, sir, I'm well able to manage. Please, would you follow me?" She started walking towards a darkened alley branching off from the street. I hesitated, but she turned back to look at me and I couldn't help but follow. What harm could a little old lady be?

We turned down the alley, and the sounds of the London crowds died out behind us. The further we went, the darker the alley became, and the more I wondered if I had made a mistake. Finally, the old woman stopped, turning to one of the doors along the alley and drawing a key from her purse with a shaking hand.

"Please, madame, what do you need help with?" I had followed her so far, but I would not let her lead me further until I knew what I was dealing with. These back alleys could be dangerous, and I knew that some thieves would use any trick to draw a passerby into a trap.

"Just follow me, Watson." My friend's familiar voice startled me, and as I watched, the old lady straightened up, rising to Holmes' height for just a moment before regaining the old lady's hunch. "Please, good sir?" he said in the old lady's voice. Now that I knew where to look, I could recognise Holmes through the disguise.

"Of course," I answered, and followed him inside. Whatever his disguise or reasoning, I would follow Holmes anywhere.


	21. Peppermint Cake

_Prompt from Winter Winks 221: Peppermint cake. I've never had peppermint cake before, but I'm not too fond of peppermint, so hopefully my own prejudices didn't come out too strongly!_

"Peppermint? Blegh!" Jimmy scrunched up his nose and turned away from the cake.

Wiggins hit him gently over the back of the head. "If you don't like it, don't eat it. You still gotta thank Mrs Hudson."

"No need, dears, I was happy to make it for you. It does me good to see you having something nice to eat at Christmastime." Mrs Hudson smiled at them. "I didn't realise you had such strong feelings about cake, or I would have made a different one."

"Jimmy'll still eat it, missus," Lucy piped up, grubby hands holding her own piece of cake close. "He's just not hungry 'nough yet." She eyed the plate, but kept her hands close. Mr Holmes wouldn't like it if they stole from his landlady.

Mrs Hudson's smile tightened, and she held out the plate for Lucy to grab another piece, then offered it around to the others as well. "Have as many as you like, children. It's all for you."

They all grabbed some, even Jimmy. Peppermint or not, cake was cake.


	22. Decorating

_Prompt from Wordwielder: Decorating_

"Decorating? What for?"

"Sherlock, it's Christmas," Mary laughed. "This is the usual time to put up decorations. John told me Mrs Hudson was having trouble with hers this year, so I thought I'd offer her some help."

Holmes gestured to the basket she was holding with both hands, ribbons and bits of felt peeking out the covered top. "All of this?"

Mary blushed. "I might have brought a little too much. I've never been able to put up my own decorations before, it seemed so exciting."

"Oh, Mary dear!" Mrs Hudson poked her head through the door of the sitting room. "Don't worry about up here, Mr Holmes doesn't like any decorations around. Come down, we can have a cup of tea before we start."

"That sounds lovely, Mrs Hudson. I'll be right down." Mrs Hudson left the room. Mary gave Holmes a smile. "It was nice to see you, Sherlock. John said to tell you Mr Brownlee was right, and that he'll be around this afternoon to tell you more." She followed Mrs Hudson out of the room.

Holmes sunk back in his chair, returning to thoughts about his case. Before he did, however, the thought occurred to him that perhaps one Christmas decoration would not be so bad.


	23. Christmas Surprise

_Prompt from cjnwriter: It was the perfect Christmas dinner, until..._

"Mrs Lestrade?" The officer asked, expression stern. Beth nodded. "You need to come down to the station, ma'am."

Beth swallowed. She turned to look at the children, who were playing a clapping game in the hall, before turning back to the officer. "Is.. Is my husband…" She couldn't say the word.

The officer shook his head, softening slightly. "No, ma'am. Inspector Lestrade is alive and not in danger."

Beth held on to the doorframe with one shaking hand, near-collapsing from the sudden surge of relief. The officer reached out, face creasing in concern, then just as quickly resumed his impassive posture and expression. "I can't tell you any more until we get there, ma'am, but the inspector is not in trouble and nor are you."

Beth kept her white-knuckled grip on the doorframe, but managed to give the officer a smile. "Thank you. I can't tell you how good it is to know that. Let me just call my sister to look after the children and I'll come right with you." The officer nodded his understanding, and she went back inside, heading straight for the telephone. After that sudden shock, she needed to see her husband as soon as possible.


	24. Old Friends Departed

_Prompt from Winter Winks 221: Nice knowing you, old friend._

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" Holmes' voice echoed through the empty graveyard.

The wind whistling through the trees was his only reply. Their branches stood stark against the grey sky, their leaves stripped away by the encroaching winter.

Holmes shivered against the cold, pulling his coat closer around himself. He hadn't intended to stay so long, but once he'd sat he'd found it hard to leave. Leaving would be leaving behind his last connection to his friend. "I'd never considered that I'd be the one standing at your grave. It should have been me."

The gravestone continued to stand silently, the dates gleaming on the fresh stone as evidence of a friend gone too soon.

"Have your rest." Holmes stood to leave. He would not be able to come back again - he would leave for America tomorrow, and his undercover assignment may not be something he could come back from. "Nice knowing you, old friend."

As he left the graveyard, the dying sunlight hit against the gravestone, throwing the name into stark relief: Inspector Stanley Hopkins.


	25. No Good Deed

_Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: No good deed goes unpunished. This is a sequel to Christmas Surprise, for those who were wondering what had happened to Lestrade. _

"Your wife should be coming soon, Inspector," the officer told Lestrade. "Brown has gone to your address to get her now."

"Thank you, Collins." Lestrade turned away from the bars to glare at Holmes. "At least someone can listen to orders."

"I'll remind you, Inspector, this was not what I intended when I asked you to accompany me tonight." Holmes sat back on the hard bunk provided for prisoners, holding a cloth to his rapidly swelling eye. "There was no reason to believe Hodgson would be violent-"

"- except clearly, there was." Lestrade gestured to Holmes' eye, then to himself. "Else I wouldn't be smelling like the inside of a chamber pot." His uniform smelled strongly of urine, with splodges of brown that he hadn't wanted to look too closely at. It had been bad enough being thrown into the gutter in that part of town without thinking too much about what else might have found its way into the gutter with him. "Teach me to give up Christmas dinner with my family to help a friend," he muttered. "Just goes to show, no good deed goes unpunished!"


	26. Vatican Cameos

_Prompt from Domina Temporis: Vatican Cameos._

"Whatever did happen to your case about the Vatican cameos, Holmes?" I asked one rainy afternoon. I had just finished writing up the case that I later called The Hound of the Baskervilles, and Holmes was sitting on the floor, his casebooks spread out around him as he searched for some obscure detail relevant to his latest monograph. The two occurrences together reminded me of the mention Holmes had made to a case about Vatican cameos, one which was entirely unfamiliar to me. Admittedly, after my marriage I had been less available to accompany Holmes on his cases, but I had presumed we had not grown so far apart I would fail to notice him leaving the country.

Holmes glanced at me and laughed, answering the question I was thinking instead of what I had asked in that manner so characteristic of him. "No, Watson, I know very well you would have accompanied me if I had asked. When I left for the Vatican, you were away for your brother's wedding, and I was back again before you returned. The case, though quite peculiar in some aspects, was brief."

I put aside my feelings of content at Holmes' affirmation of our friendship and leaned forward, asking, "Are you able to share it? As I've heard nothing of it, I assume it was of the utmost secrecy."

"At the time, yes, though less so now, yet still enough to not be published." Holmes pushed his books aside, turning to face me fully. "May I trust your discretion, Watson?"

"Of course," I vowed. "I will not even take notes."

"Very well. It started like this…"


	27. An Unusual Fan

_Prompt from PowerOfPens: Holmes signs an autograph for an unusual fan._

"Mr Sherlock Holmes! What a fortunate coincidence!"

I turned to observe the man hailing me, noting that he was not someone I recognised, though from the marks on his sleeve I was not surprised. Watson was more familiar with writers than I, and neither of us liked leaving London, so were unlikely to encounter the man in his home county of Surrey.

"I almost didn't recognise you without the hat!" The man panted, beaming as he extended his hand for me to shake. "George Henley, at your service. I've always wanted to meet you, and now couldn't be more perfect timing. A friend of mine has told me a most fantastic story, and I'm sure if anyone would be able to get at the truth of it, it's you!"

It was times like these that I deplored ever granting Watson permission to publish his stories. As many interesting new cases it had brought me, it had brought me ten times as many insipid tales from passerbys who insisted on telling me about a mystery any of them could have solved if they'd had the sense to just think for a moment.

As it happened, I did have a few minutes to spare, and I told Henley as much, emphasising that ti could only be a few minutes. He nodded, hastily telling me about his friend who claimed to have been on an extraordinary trip, one that was far beyond the limits of science or reason. "I hesitate to even describe it to you, Mr Holmes," he confided. "Such a trip is impossible, yet he seems to believe it utterly."

I was intrigued by what this trip could be to garner such a reaction, but as I glanced at my watch I realised I was running late, and could not spare further time for this matter. "If the trip truly is impossible, then there are only two solutions. Either your friend is mad, and his trip is a product of some vivid imagining, or he is lying, and has some purpose for fooling you. Question him further, and the truth will likely come to light."

"He has said that he will be leaving again tomorrow," Henley said hesitantly. "I suppose I could go to his house, see if I can catch him by surprise."

I nodded. "That seems a sound plan. I must go, but feel free to let me know what you find. I confess to being most curious about this trip."

Henley laughed. "It's truly the most ridiculous thing, Mr Holmes. Who has ever heard of a man travelling by time machine?"


	28. Cracked Ice

_Prompt from mrspencil: a pond has thinner ice than anticipated_

The wind whipped his coat. "Holmes!" he cried against the howling of the storm. "Holmes, are we close yet?"

"Nearly, Watson!" Holmes shouted in return. He was barely visible through the heavy sleet, just a tall, dark-coated figure some distance ahead. "The pond can't be far now!"

Watson hurried along in Holmes' wake, knowing if he lost his friend now, it would take far too long to find him again and the effort could very well kill them both. He pulled his scarf tighter, fighting against the cruel winds snatching it away. "Will you even be able to see the evidence in this?"

His words must have disappeared into the storm, as Holmes did not reply.

Holmes was correct, as always, and a few minutes later Watson was stepping on the icy edge of the frozen pond. "Holmes!" he shouted. "It's here!"

Holmes was at his side in moments. Watson relished in the warmth, as the storm had only grown worse in the last few minutes, and his fingers were starting to grow numb. It was dangerous to stay out in it much longer, he knew, but he knew equally well that he had little hope of convincing Holmes to return to their accommodation until the evidence they sought for was found.

Holmes stepped out onto the ice. It creaked beneath him, barely audible over the howling gale, but held. He took a further step, Watson watching the ice underneath his feet carefully so as to catch the very first sign it would crack. If Holmes fell through, he would go after him, but he knew it would do little good.

At Holmes' next step, the ice gave. It was only the merest fraction, but it was enough for Watson to call, "Holmes stop! The ice won't hold!"

"One more, Watson!" He thought he heard in reply, but he couldn't be sure.

Holmes took another step.

The ice cracked beneath him.

"Holmes!"

Holmes took a step backwards, but it was too late. Cracks were already spiderwebbing across the ice, water leaking up through the narrow gaps. Suddenly, it was a race back to the shore between Holmes and the steadily cracking ice.

Watson stepped out onto the ice, relying on the thicker ice near the edge to keep him safe, but even that was thinner than anticipated. Thin cracks appeared, and water started to puddle around his shoes, but he didn't step back. With the rate the ice was cracking, he would need to grab Holmes and pull him ashore or watch him disappear into the freezing depths.

Finally, Holmes was close enough to grab, and he reached for his friend's coat, pulling with all his strength and sending the two of them careening backwards into the snow, safe.

"Next time, Holmes," Watson said, the storm still carrying on around them and dampness from the snow slowly sinking into their clothes, "perhaps we can wait until after the storm before looking for evidence."


	29. Getting It Right

_Happy Christmas in July! I will get all of these done by December, and hopefully, even by the end of the month. _

_Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: "You haven't been right yet." _

"Really, Watson, is this necessary?"

Watson just leaned back further in his chair, grinning. "Yes, Holmes, absolutely."

"You know that this information will most likely be removed from my mental attic as soon as you leave."

"Yes, I know." He motioned with one hand. "Go on."

Holmes sighed in frustration. "We've been doing this all morning, Watson. Eventually you will have to be satisfied that I have got it right."

"You haven't been right yet." Smile falling, Watson leaned forward. "It's my wedding, Holmes, and you're my best man. Surely it's not too much to ask that you'll be able to give Mary a good dance?"

"I'm not the one she's marrying," Holmes muttered, but he conceded. "Very well. One more try, and that is it, Watson."

Watson's smile returned. "Thank you, Holmes. Now, one, two, three, one, two, three..."


	30. Imagination

_Prompt from W. Y. Traveller: Imagination. Only one more to go! _

"Dr Watson certainly has quite an imagination, with those stories of his," Mycroft Holmes said one day, sitting in the Visitor's Room of the Diogenes Club. His words seemed idle, but his eyes flicked a sharp glance towards his brother across the table.

"I hadn't known you read them," Sherlock responded. He, too, seemed casual, but his grip on his pipe had tightened.

"Some people at the office do insist on asking me about them. I haven't read them all, of course, not to my tastes, but they make pleasant enough reading, if a little fanciful."

"Watson has his faults as a biographer," Sherlock admitted, "and his stories have brought fame that makes disguising myself harder, but they have also brought some of my more interesting cases."

"Yet some of them surely must be imagination. A vampire, Sherlock?" Mycroft set his paper down to argue the point more convincingly. "Who could possibly believe in such a thing, without having spent far too much time having read Mr Stoker's novel?"

"That is far from the first time we had been approached about a case involving a vampire, Mycroft. Indeed, as imaginative as Watson's prose is, even he would be put to shame by some of those who have requested my help!" Sherlock's voice rose at the end, and a man across the room glanced his way with a frown. Even in the Visitor's Room, excess noise was not appreciated by the Diogenes Club members.

Mycroft shook out his newspaper to hide his smile. "In that case, Sherlock, it rather sounds that you are fortunate to have a friend with an appropriate amount of imagination."


	31. New Year's Eve, 1881

_My final story! Thank you for everyone who has continued to read and leave reviews, your patience is amazing and I appreciate it more than I can say! _

_Prompt from W. Y. Traveller: The first New Year's Eve at 221B._

By the time of New Year's Eve 1881, I had known Sherlock Holmes for only some months, and had not been accustomed to his habit of being so different from any other man in London. Even that first Christmas, which Holmes had noted only by ruing that all of the city should be shut down for the day, was not enough to convince me. Therefore, it was with great astonishment that I saw Holmes head off to his bed at only eight o'clock on New Year's Eve.

"Why, Holmes, going to bed already?" I exclaimed.

Holmes looked at me with some surprise. You should know, my dear readers, that even with so short an acquaintance as we'd had at the time, I had already been very clear in my preference for early nights. Holmes, who was much more of a night owl than I, had waved me off to bed more nights than not, and it wasn't uncommon for me to find him still there the next morning, thus his surprise at my sudden change of heart. "It has been a long few nights on this latest case, Watson. I would have thought you would be in favour of me turning in early."

"On any other night, Holmes, but this is New Year's Eve." He did not look affected, so I continued, "My tradition from childhood has been to stay up until midnight, to see in the New Year."

"I wish you well with it," Holmes told me, and proceeded to his bedroom.

I thought for a moment to call him back, but did not know what I would say. As fascinating as I found him, I was not yet sure if Holmes and I were even friends, and a mere flatmate had no reason to stay up to see in the New Year with me. Instead, I settled back into my chair, bringing out a book to read until the clock struck midnight, and I could say goodbye to 1881 and all it had brought me, both good and ill.

It may have been childish of me, but I made a wish when that moment finally came, and I still remember it to this day. I wished that next New Year's Eve, I would have a friend to welcome in the year beside me.

My wish has come true every year since.


End file.
